Doggy Num Nums

dog in pub

Dogs in pubs. Do we like this? Discuss.

OK wait. Stop discussing. I’ll give you the answer. No we friggin bloody well don’t! Fark, if it’s not bad enough that I seem to have moved to early-thirties-middle-class-baby-making center of the universe, now I need to deal with dogs for dinner. At. I mean at dinner. No need to call the RSPCA.

This particular pub has a what do you call it, a mascot dog, an in-house dog, a doggy dweller? I could almost forgive that horse of a thing because it looks like its a hundred years old, moves at the pace of a tortoise and if it still possesses a voice, it hasn’t yet given so much as a throat clear all the times I’ve been there.

But last Saturday there were two other dogs present with their owners, one of each at the tables directly beside and behind me. They of course started fighting the minute number two arrived and the owners merely chuckled in a “awww aren’t they cute?” kind of thing, the same way parents do every time a toddler is screaming two feet from my ear hole whenever I’m in a cafe.

No, they’re not cute, they’re bloody annoying. I’m eating. Do something about it.

I went to the bar to see if I could order some food and when I got back I found that dog number one was let off its lead and had decided to pee behind my chair. Great, thanks for that. A staff member was mopping it up when I got back and smiled in a kind of deferential way to the owner. What? Are you kidding me? This is not ok. Don’t smile at him. Make a face. Give him a lecture. Tell him to leave. And how about mopping up the milk left under my table while you’re here? I mean it’s only one hand movement away from the pee, I’m sure you saw it.

Do I sound like a cranky old fart? Well, yeah maybe. But they weren’t small dogs, they weren’t oness that fit in your average trust fund debutante’s oversized and overpriced piece of material called a handbag. Oh, is that what they’re called these days? Wait I’ll check. Ok, Prada says they’re handbags, but they’re sub-categorized into top handles and totes… I can’t see the difference. Can you?

Here’s a top handle…

top handles

Here’s a tote…


Bloody well friggin looks the same to me!

But what’s the point? Of the dogs I mean. I don’t care to waste any more brain cells on the handbags. Why bring your dog to the pub? Is it a time management thing, no time to get a walk AND a meal at the pub in? Is it a show off thing, ooh look at my dog, see his shiny coat, I’m a fabulous human because I have a pet and it’s my best friend and we go everywhere together.

That’s all I can come up with. i seriously don’t get it. I think I’ll just stop there.

2 thoughts on “Doggy Num Nums

  1. I used to take my dog to the pub. I think he annoyed me more than anyone else (except maybe you) so he doesn’t go anymore. No one loves a napkin stealing leg humping mutt. Even though he’s pretty freaking cute about it.

    • I understand the desire. I’m not anti-dog per se. Just anti-horse-size dog fighting and urinating next to me while I try to eat inside the restaurant part of a pub. Outside a pub, in the bar part of a pub, in a garden, at a park, on the street, in a car – no tantrums from me. I wonder if they do this back home now too, or is it truly English.

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